


1888, Crowley The Ripper

by ProjectOrthus



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Jack the Ripper - Freeform, Victorian, victorian london
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 00:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19346284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProjectOrthus/pseuds/ProjectOrthus
Summary: It’s 1888, and Crowley has been acting distant from Aziraphale. He’s also been seen with a mysterious woman, and Aziraphale suspects he’s cheating on him. In reality, Crowley is doing a job for Hell, one that he would rather keep from the angel, for fear of hurting their friendship.





	1888, Crowley The Ripper

Summer, 1888. Nobody referred to it as “victorian london”, but rather referred to it as “the present”. A.Z. Fell & Co was doing very well in Aziraphale’s perspective. As in, nobody was purchasing any books. The angel couldn’t have been happier. Or that’s what he told himself. He knew perfectly well that Crowley had dropped by the city for at least a decade, but the demon had hardly payed Aziraphale any visits at all. They did, of course, have the occasional dinner or walk in the park, but nothing frequent. Aziraphale told himself that Crowley was likely busy, that he didn't have time to visit him every day. But the absence of his friend still brought him down, and he found himself feeling lonely and neglected. His regular book-finders were beginning to notice, and that morning, Mrs. Baker decided to check in on Aziraphale when she dropped off her weekly supply of old books. She found him sitting at his desk, a dusty stack of letters piled in front of him, the paper yellow and stiff with age. Aziraphale was wearing his spectacles and white gloves, and was reading one of the letters. Mrs. Baker put the stack of books down on a table and went over to the angel, putting a hand on his shoulder. Aziraphale started, looking up from his reading.  
“Dolores!” he said, quickly tucking away the letter, “I didn’t hear you come in.”  
“How are you, Mr. Fell?” asked Dolores, “you haven't been looking half well.”  
Aziraphale averted his gaze from the woman. “I’m doing fine, thank you,” he said, “did you bring the books?”  
“Yes, they’re right here, Mr. Fell,” Dolores patted the pile of books, “say, I saw you with that man, Mr. Crowley, the other day. He’s a regular at the pub, you know. Is he a friend of yours?”  
“Crowley?” asked Aziraphale, “yes, we go back. He’s been rather distant lately.”  
“He’s got a lady friend,” Dolores grinned, “saw them out the other day, by the pub. Quite a looker, her. Haven't seen her around before, either. Must be new to town. Though had an odd look, that gel. Almost posh, but... Patched together, you know?”  
Aziraphale’s face fell. “A woman?”  
“Oh yes, arm in arm they were,” Dolores went on, “he’s good looking, that Mr. Crowley. Thought I’d only be a matter of time before he found a lady.”  
Aziraphale nodded slowly, processing this. “I’m going to have to speak with him,” he muttered.  
“You quite alright, Mr. Fell?” Dolores asked, “you look rather faint.”  
“I’m fine,” Aziraphale stood up, “thank you for the books, as usual. Your payment,” he handed her an envelope, “and now I must leave. I have business to attend to.”

Crowley had “set up camp” in a small apartment in Whitechapel. It was run down, it dripped, and it was usually cold, but Crowley quite liked it. The landlord didn't much care what he got up to in there, so he was able to conduct his business in peace. Crowley didn’t take every job that the head office sent him, but he had hopped on this one immediately. It sounded like a hell of a good time, and Crowley was always up for spreading a little mayhem and fear. The hard part was keeping it away from Aziraphale.  
Now, Crowley sat in the park, looking over the duck-crowded water and watching people of various status meander through the grass. He looked over as Aziraphale sat beside him.  
“Hello, Aziraphale,” he said, “what brings you to the park today?”  
“I was looking for you,” said Aziraphale, averting eye contact, “what have you been up to?”  
“I probably shouldn’t say,” Crowley said, “demon business. You know.”  
“I could help you, if you helped me with something,” Aziraphale suggested, “you know, as we usually do.”  
Crowley looked uncomfortable. “Nah, not this time. Too risky to do it too often, right?”  
“Well then, what about taking me for dinner?”  
“Can’t,” Crowley said, “not tonight. Got... things tonight.”  
Aziraphale glanced over at him. “Right. You have ‘things’. What would those ‘things’ be?”  
“Can’t say,” Crowley said simply, “sorry, just can’t. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just... you know...”  
“You haven't told me why you came into town,” Aziraphale said, “you haven't said a word! Come on, Crowley, I won’t tell anyone! You know that!”  
“I’m sorry, but it’s confidential,” Crowley said.  
“It’s something bad isn’t it?”  
“Of course it is, I’m a demon,” Crowley snorted.  
“You know what I mean!” snapped Aziraphale, “I don’t mind tempting and... and petty thievery, or corruption! If you won’t tell me, this must be something much worse!”  
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Crowley asked, “this isn’t a cheery ‘hello’, this is a confrontation. Oh, don’t give me that look. What have I done?”  
“You hardly ever visit me,” Aziraphale said stiffly, “It feels like you’re avoiding me.”  
Crowley snorted, but in a worried sort of way. “I’m not. I’m just busy,”  
Aziraphale drew in a breath, preparing himself for the confrontation. “An... agent of mine has informed me that you were seen on multiple occasions in the company of a... lady,”  
Crowley tensed up, glancing at the angel. Then he pulled out a dark pocket watch from his coat and glanced at it. “Well, look at the time,” he said, “I’ve got... stuff. Later.” Crowley got up, shooting quick finger guns at Aziraphale (the first occurrence of such a gesture), and made his way quickly out of the park.  
Aziraphale sat in flustered silence, clenching his hands. Something was up with Crowley, and he didn’t like it one bit. 

Back in the bookshop, the letters sat on the desk. They went back thousands of years, all the way back to when writing was invented. They ranged in languages, neatness, and length, but they all had one thing in common. They were all addressed to Aziraphale, from Crowley. Aziraphale had boxes of them, stored away, waiting to be read and re-read. He had personal favorites, and kept them all in one box, sorted by century. The rest were, of course, chronologically sorted, but Aziraphale wanted quick access to the fondest memories of Crowley. The favorites box was now open by his desk, and the letters sat on top of the hardwood surface. A history of Aziraphale’s favorite letters, a history of him and Crowley. Each letter was preserved with the greatest care. Nothing in the world meant more to Aziraphale. Except, perhaps, Crowley. 

Crowley walked arm in arm with Elizabeth Stride, a young maid. She had met him late one night, when he was on his way home from a local pub. The woman had offered him her services, but Crowley politely declined, instead offering to take her out to dinner, his treat. Soon, Elizabeth had grown to trust Crowley, and he often took her out to eat, as she couldn’t always afford a good meal. Crowley believed the woman was falling in love with him, which worried him. He would have to do the job soon.  
It was night, and he was eager to get the task ahead of him over with. They walked down the streets of Whitechapel, Crowley trying to avoid the lumination that the lamps provided. He didn’t want to be seen with Elizabeth that night. He didn’t want to have to leave the country. Aziraphale was upset with him, and he wanted to rectify the situation as soon as possible. Having to flee to France wouldn’t make him look very good in the angel’s eyes.  
“Where are we going?” asked Elizabeth, who had developed an unhealthy trust towards Crowley, “it’s awful late. Only the pubs are open now.”  
Crowley didn't look at her, in case his face gave away anything. “Oh, just a little place I know,” he said, “somewhere quiet. You’ll like it.”  
Elizabeth sighed and leaned into Crowley’s arm. “It’s been lovely, you know,” she said, “these past couple days with you. I hope you feel the same.”  
They were nearing Crowley’s flat now. He mentaly went through the preparations he had made. White sheets over the floor, table and chairs. Drapes over the walls. Knives on the table, scalpel by the knives, and a bucket of ice under the table. Everything was ready.  
They walked up the narrow stairs of the building, and Crowley unlocked his flat, motioning Elizabeth in. “After you, my dear,” he said with a smile.  
Elizabeth bobbed her head politely and went into the flat. She stopped, confused, staring at the sheets that covered the room. Her eyes fell on the knives, the bucket of ice. She turned back to Crowley, who was locking the door.  
“What-” she began. Crowley put a hand over her mouth and grabbed her arms. In his palm, against her nose, a handkerchief soaked in chloroform was clutched. The woman tried to scream, to hit her captor, to struggle out, but soon the chemical subdued her, and she fell limply to the floor. Crowley tucked away the handkerchief. It was easier this way. No struggle, no screaming. He had learned his lesson the first time. Crowley dragged Elizabeth to the center of the room. He rolled up his sleeves, selected a nice sharp knife.  
“Now then,” he said, “to work.” 

The light was on in Crowley’s flat, though the blinds were drawn. Aziraphale didn’t like this part of town, and felt vulnerable and unprotected as he walked briskly towards his friend’s lodginings. Crowley had said he would be busy that night, and yet his illuminated window suggested otherwise. The angel had a bad feeling about all of this, but he couldn’t turn back now. He was set on finding out what was going on. Realistically, he thought, he shouldn’t be bothered by Crowley having a lady friend. But somehow he was, and he couldn’t shake off the feeling of betrayal.  
Aziraphale scaled the stares quicker than usual, and by the top, he was slightly out of breath. He could feel Crowley’s presence just beyond the door, and he sensed that Crowley felt him as well. He took a moment to catch his breath before knocking. There was a pause, as Crowley ran through options on the other side of the door. The lock slid open, and the door was pushed open a crack. Aziraphale saw one of Crowley’s gleaming yellow eyes peering out at him.  
“Oh, Aziraphale!” Crowley said, feigning surprise, “I didn’t know it was you.”  
“What are you doing home?” Aziraphale demanded, “you said you had work.”  
“Never said work,” said Crowley, “said ‘things’.”  
“Let me in,” Aziraphale said, “or I will be forced to miracle my way in.”  
“I could counter miracle your miracle,” Crowley said.  
“Why would you do that?” Aziraphale said, “are you hiding something?”  
“Whaat? No! Of course not.”  
Aziraphale put a firm hand on the door, pushing slightly. He felt a resistance. “Let me in, Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly, in what he hoped was a threatening voice, “or I will stop speaking to you.”  
“You don’t mean that,” said Crowley, growing worried.  
“Yes I do,” said Aziraphale, “now let me in, foul fiend.”  
There was a pause. “You’re not going to like it,” Crowley said, “just... it’s a job. For hell. I had to do it. I had no choice,”  
The door swung open. Crowley waved Aziraphale in.  
“Oh my sweet-” Aziraphale put a hand over his mouth, and used the other to steady himself on the demon’s shoulder.  
“I told you you wouldn’t like it,” Crowley said.  
The room was not so much as spattered with blood, but soaked with it. On the sheet covered floor was the body of a young woman, Elizabeth Stride, her chest and stomach torn open with knife strokes, blood soaking her clothes and running onto the floor. In a bucket of ice was the woman’s reproductive organs, which had been neatly sliced out with surgical precision.  
Aziraphale looked back at Crowley. “This is all quite like the-”  
“Yep,” Crowley said.  
“Who they’re calling Jack the-”  
“Yep.”  
“Are you-” gasped Aziraphale.  
“Yep,” Crowley walked over to the ice bucket and covered the organ, “five murders, then frame somebody, they said. I knew you wouldn't like it.”  
“You’re going to murder five people and then frame somebody for it?” Aziraphale said, shocked, “my dear, that’s not demonic, that’s evil!”  
“Listen, I don’t control the jobs they give me, I just do them!” Crowley said, taking down a bloodspattered sheet from the wall and using it to cover Elizabeth’s body, “I have no control over this.”  
“I- I thought you were... you were in a relationship with that young lady,” Aziraphale said, not knowing weather to be relieved or even more horrified.  
“Is that what you were so upset about?” Crowley smirked.  
“Well, I knew you were up to something, so not entirely, but-” Aziraphale cut off, seeing the look on Crowley’s face, “yes,” he said, giving up, “I was.”  
Crowley softened, walking over to Aziraphale. “Don’t worry about that, angel,” he said, “I won’t stop being your friend because of some woman. I promise.” He reached out to put his hands on Aziraphale’s arms, but Aziraphale jumped back.  
“Your hands are covered in blood!” he yelped, “do not touch me.”  
“Sorry,” Crowley wiped his hands on his jacket, causing Aziraphale to flinch, “how about I take you out for lunch tomorrow? A sort of apology.”  
“And you’ll stop all of this?” Aziraphale asked hopefully.  
“Can’t,” sighed Crowley, “too far in. I know you don’t like it, but... the boss's orders stand.”  
“Right,” Aziraphale said, “at least you didn’t ask me to do it for you.”  
Crowely chuckled. “Yeah, you’ve got a point there.”  
The pair stood in silence for a moment, Aziraphale still processing the situation. He didn’t like any bit of it, but he knew he couldn’t stop Crowley from doing the job. It would be better for both of them if the demon did what he was told, even if Aziraphale wasn’t completely happy with it.  
“I should leave,” Aziraphale said, “I have a bookshop to look after.”  
“And I have a body to dump,” Crowley said, “are you sure you’re okay?”  
Aziraphale smiled. “Of course I am, my dear. I don’t have to like the jobs you do. I’m not supposed to, by definition. However, I still like you.”  
“Oh, stop it, you’re getting all sentimental,” Crowley scoffed, “wipe your feet on the way out, I think you got some liver on your shoe.”  
Aziraphale quickly shook the liver off, gave Crowley a quick smile, and hurried out of the flat. His head was spinning slightly, and he would have quite liked to go for a drink, but he never really did that without the companionship of Crowley anymore, so instead he walked back to the bookshop. He felt intensely guilty for not stopping Crowley, so on the way he cured a few people of various ailments and miracled a coat for a small child, curled up and shivering in a dirty alleyway. Then, feeling a bit more morally sound about himself and no longer worried about his relationship with Crowley, Aziraphale went back into the bookshop, where he stowed away the letters, gave his books a quick dusting, and then settled down for his second read of The Man Who Would be King.  
The street was quiet as Crowley dumped the body of Elizabeth Stride in a nearby alleyway, and the moonlight fell onto her bloodspattered face in a way that almost made her look alive, just sleeping. Crowley regarded the night’s deed with a strange sense of... guilt. He had known since the beginning that Aziraphale wouldn’t like it, of course, and the angel hadn’t really gotten mad at him, but the look on his face still made Crowley feel bad about what he was doing. He was a demon, he told himself. It shouldn’t matter what angels think. And yet it did. Crowley gave his hands another wipe, dropped a knife by the body, and went back into the flat to start cleanup. As he scrubbed, he thought of the promised lunch the next day. Maybe Aziraphale would forgive him if he bought him a nice lemon meringue pie to go along with lunch. Crowley smiled at the thought, then continued stuffing the bloodstained sheets into potato sacks, ready for burning.


End file.
